


Deep Breaths

by Anonymous



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alpha Akechi Goro, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Masturbation, Piss Fetish, Scent Kink, Scenting, Stink Kink, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26371183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When he thinks about it, the actual exchanging of the jersey had little fanfare. For whatever inane reason, Kurusu's little guide girl wanted to meet them at Shujin. Ergo, Goro needed a uniform to waltz in with. Ergo, Kurusu hands him his jersey.---Akechi gets ahold of Akira's jersey and lets himself indulge, just a little bit (a lot a bit).Companion piece toI'd Look Good On You
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 181
Collections: Anonymous





	Deep Breaths

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags!
> 
> Thank you to [mop](https://twitter.com/anon102995) for the wonderful beta 💖💖💖
> 
> Companion piece to [I'd Look Good On You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26397814)

When he thinks about it, the actual exchanging of the jersey had little fanfare. For whatever inane reason, Kurusu's little guide girl wanted to meet them at Shujin. Ergo, Goro needed a uniform to waltz in with. Ergo, Kurusu hands him his jersey. It's a ratty thing for something that's only been in use for less than a year, and Goro thinks with both fondness and disdain that it matches every other thing about Kurusu perfectly. He dumps it in the entryway of his apartment when he gets 'home' that night, and doesn't bother to think about it until 6AM the next morning when he realizes he should probably check how it fits and if he needed to wash it.

The first thing Goro notices is that it does fit decently, if not a little tightly around his thighs and shoulders. It makes sense for their height difference and causes the slightest feeling of pity for however Kitagawa must be holding up with Sakamoto's uniform. The second thing is that disgustingly, he does actually need to wash it. There's a slight musk that hangs around the collar that he's now noticing permeates the entire bag it came in when he inspects it, and he spends an entire minute being _completely_ disgusted before he realizes just what it is he's smelling.

It's sweat, yes, a mix of musk and must from both Kurusu and that dingy attic he lives in. There's the impression of coffee, and the high tint of sweat fighting with whatever discount detergent he must have used on it last.

Below all of that is the cloying sweetness of an omega.

There's a sudden, violent urge that seizes Goro with a ferocity, grip white knuckled as he shoves his nose further into the collar. He runs mentally through all the omega scents he knows off the top of his head- Takamaki, Okumura, one of Akira's other little friends like that sniveling boy they ran into in Shinjuku one time—

He almost feels like he's been enraged when he can't produce a good match, trying to picture who else it could be, who Kurusu could have _hid_ from him that well even though their scent is so saturated into his stinky little jersey. Someone from the gym? Who could have pressed themselves so tightly against him that the smell is _everywhere_ , how many times must they have fucked for it to complement Kurusu's neutral scent _that_ well—

And then a thought enters him, because it does compliment Kurusu's natural scent well. It compliments it so well that it almost doesn't seem like a different scent at all and huh, isn't that an idea?

Goro's always assumed that Kurusu was an alpha, it'd make _sense_ for him to be one. He holds himself low but solid, he has his sharp grins and charismatic stare. Goro had hardly minded following his lead in the casino- well, it'd been as minimally grating as it could possibly be, anyway- and he'd always assumed that the reason he'd never used his alpha voice was out of some naïveté or 'do gooder' attitude about class dynamics and hierarchy in the group. It made sense for Kurusu to be an alpha. Goro himself is an alpha, and they match in every way. Kurusu challenges him in ways he hadn’t thought anyone would be able to match him in. They’re equals. Partners, maybe. Rivals. Goro wouldn't accept anything less.

He takes another deep breath in, the idea of it being Kurusu's scent scattering his reservations like smoke in the air. A new, more pressing thought enters- which is: of _course_ he’s an omega, he’s _made for me_.

There’s no other explanation to the full way his body relaxes and lust fills in the hot space his rage just vacated, and Akechi finds his hands creeping from zipper on collar to his thighs on their own. How much had Kurusu known? Goro’s never hid his alignment- not from him, and he’s also certain the quick eyed thief had likely seen the small arc of his deflated knot at the bathhouse when they went. He finds himself tracing the drawstring of the sweats as he ponders- had this been on purpose? It’s hard to picture Kurusu being so careless, sliding over clothes with the remnants of his sweet musk that even government suppressants couldn’t excise from his sweat. Perhaps he’d just wanted Goro to know. He can't imagine the hotheaded Sakamoto and headstrong Nijima sister taking orders from an omega as well as they do if they knew his true alignment. It must be a secret.

His grips himself through the sweats and rubs the head of his cock with his thumb. He wonders if he’ll be able to catch the scent of Akira's slick if he slides the sweats back off and presses his nose into the inseam.

It's far more tempting than he wants to admit.

Goro pauses and checks the time. They still need to sneak into Shujin later that day, and he’ll likely need to wash the clothes between then and after his... activities. Or perhaps he should wait, and return the clothes with his matching scent to overlap. Kurusu’s face would be priceless- Goro’s not certain what expression he’d make, but he’s sure it’d be good. Would he be shocked, or flustered, maybe disgusted, or even excite—

His hand stops palming himself through the fabric.

No. It has to be now. Even if he and Kurusu are mates, even if this is some conscious attempt at flirting and not just a simple oversight, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s dead. Will be dead again, if he gets his way. Reciprocating whatever this is would only make Kurusu’s upcoming choice harder for him, and Goro is the type that likes to stack his hand before he plays it.

So now, then. He’ll give himself 40 minutes, and then run the laundry and dry cycle. He’ll let the knowledge of the way their scents mix together be the one pleasant secret out of the cesspool he takes with him to his grave. How fitting for Kurusu.

Mind made up, his fingers work with renewed vigor. He strips himself entirely and makes himself comfortable on his couch- there’s some extra joy in being able to flagrantly flaunt the luxuries Shido’s dirty money affords him- legs spread and blood red tracksuit over his thighs. He goes over both garments clinically, mentally constructing a game plan of activities based off of what he likes and what he has time for. As expected, though both garments are saturated in Kurusu's muted smell, the sweet spikes of omega hidden under the general strokes of musk concentrate on the lapels, underarms, and crotch. He probably doesn’t have time to pop his knot and have it deflate in time, as much as he wants to coat the inseam with the thick cum that only comes from knotting. If he did though, god, he could rub it into the neck piece and just have it hang around Kurusu’s scent glands every time he wore it afterwards—

Come on, focus.

Goro manages to clear his head for all of two seconds before deciding to just go full on degenerate. Who is going to judge him? Even if the thieves somehow figured out what he did, he’s not going to be around much longer to suffer their judgement. Kurusu is now someone who is his by birthright and he won’t ever get to experience him. With purpose, Goro lays down and rearranges things so that they’re how he wants them. He straddles the tracksuit jersey between his thighs, saturated with lube, and the waistline of Kurusu’s pants are inverted so that the crotch point and back rise stick out. Goro buries his face in it, lets himself take a deep breath in of coffee, Kurusu’s detergent, and Kurusu’s scent.

It’s so good. It drives him _crazy_. His hips buck forth once against the slippery fabric, catching on the texture shift between the collar and lining. He lets himself fist the jersey around his length, squeezing the base of his dick as he grinds his nose even deeper into the crotch stitch. Akira, Akira, _Akira_. Akira who has worn this jersey countless times before, whose sweat has bled into the red fabric, whose hole ground into this same seam as he sat or rode exercise bikes—

What would he do with Akira if he was here? He’d want to lick him head to toe first, he thinks- capture any bit of scent he could grab with his nose before stealing it away with his tongue. That attic trash has to go to a bathhouse to clean too, doesn’t he? Goro knows for certain Akira makes it a point to visit if he’s gone to the metaverse that day, but there’s been a few visits to Leblanc where Akira would stay an extra foot away, shoulders up and fingers scratching along the crown of his head a bit more often than usual.

So he’d likely skipped those days, naughty boy. Goro can’t help but let out a low groan at the thought- the longer between baths, the more Akira’s scent would build up, wouldn’t it? He wonders if Akira ever shocked himself with his omegan scent, the smell unfamiliar after being forced into a course of suppressants far longer than generally recommended. He wonders if the long stretches between baths was his silent form of rebellion rather than a lack of hygiene, unwilling to let the system take this aspect of himself away from him as well. Perhaps Akira was simply homesick. Goro wanted to pin him down on one of those days, drag Akira up by his thighs so he could lap his essence up where it’s the most concentrated, take each of his balls gently into his mouth and suck on his perineum. He’d loosen him up with his tongue, lap up his slick just to drool it back down his gaping hole after he finished. He’d devour Akira whole, clean or not. Perhaps he even preferred him a little dirty, a little worn. Then he could ruin him down the rest of the way.

With a small moan, Goro takes the chunk of the crotch point into his mouth and sucks. It’s mostly bitter, but there’s just the hint of something a little sour that sends electricity like a ziodyne down his spine. His hips have shifted from fucking into his fist to grinding against the jersey in little clockwise motions against the couch, and Goro notes with a bit of distance that fuck, he popped his knot after all.

It's fine though, this freed his other hand up. He trails it around aimlessly, pressing just between his balls and asshole, sliding the dull edge of his thumbnail up to his entrance before switching gear and using a bit of the residual lube from the jersey to slip a finger inside. Akira might be an omega but he was still his rival, so maybe he didn’t need to completely discard the fantasies he’d amassed before this revelation. An Akira who went cock stupid at the sight of his knot was appealing- Goro would love to gloat that weakness over him, to be able to shut him up mid argument by grinding into his ass and feel him shiver against him, to reduce the great Joker into his basest omega that he could ruin and treasure. But a bratty Akira was equally as alluring, one that sat on his face and made him eat him out for hours before allowing him to even think about being able to cum. One that brandished his full scent like a weapon in order to goad Goro into all sorts of inane things, one who could get him to drop to his knees when he tilted his head just right.

Maybe after Goro ate him out on the Leblanc bar he’d push him back with a single foot, get him on his knees in front of him. Maybe he’d make him worship his foot while the rest of his slick dripped down his thighs, swirl the ball of his other foot over the damp bulge in Goro’s pants and dig the nail of his big toe into the cockhead until he whimpered. Maybe that foot would trail up and he would grind his heel against Goro’s bladder until he pissed the endless refills of coffee he’d given him into a small puddle on the floor. Then he could drop down from his little perch on the bar, kick Goro down with a light push. Straddle him, make Goro beg for it, tell him to fuck his own piss out of him so that their scents could mix and seep into the flooring. Drag Goro's hands up to grip his hips as he sinks down on his cock, press his thumbs against the firm full pouch of Akira's bladder, hole so slick Goro can’t even tell what fluid is the one coating it—

Goro groans, his hips jerk again, and his hand flies from the sweats near his face to grip the base of his knot. He wants to cum. He wants to cum into the jersey, wants to rub it into Akira's crack and nape and forbid him from washing it off for a few days, wants him to absolutely reek with how claimed he is. He wants his scent on all of Akira’s clothes, wants to litter bites on the shell of his ear and down his spine, wants to suck each finger and every toe delicately into his mouth and breed him so thoroughly that it wouldn’t even matter if Akira got pregnant or not with how much the cum makes his stomach bulge. He could do it right now, Akira is his, is his, is his i _s his is his—_

* * *

An hour later, no one notices when Goro slides into the infirmary a few minutes late. He's already established a pattern of standing away from the group, and he takes advantage of this as he makes himself comfortable against the medicine cabinets- crossing his legs and hoping it disguises the half hard knot he'd done his best to tuck away. Akira barely looks at him, which would irritate him before but is downright unbearable now that he knows that he's his mate. The small girl comes, says some barely helpful and cryptic shit before fluttering away into the hallway he's pretty sure he saw Yoshizawa in. From his side Kitagawa gives him a quizzical look, and Goro flashes him the smallest gleam of teeth to tell him to keep his mouth shut. The artist has always been all senses and no tact, he doesn't need him to comment on whatever he's smelling that the laundry machine couldn't take out.

Akira dismisses them easily, sparing Goro only a quirk of his lips that he's not sure has any meaning but sets him on edge enough in his semi soiled clothes and semi hard knot that he just spins on his heel and paces away preemptively. His phone vibrates in his pocket before he clears the hallway, and Akira... asks? No, _tells_ him to meet him at Leblanc later after school.

It's long enough for Goro to return to his apartment and peel the jersey off to cum into it a few more times, get his knot to go all the way down, and double launder it. In a fit of fussiness and perhaps alpha pride, he makes sure he presses it neat before packing it perfectly folded into a paper bag. It looks better leaving than the state it came in in, at least. Looking at it sitting pristine after being so thoroughly marked disquiets something deep in his chest, but he resolutely shoves it down as he gets ready to head to Yongen-Jaya. Stacked hands, he reminds himself- Akira can't know. He _can't_.

It’s also long enough for guilt to set in, and by the time Goro’s made it back to Leblanc he’s already descended into full regret for his morning actions. Even if everything were true, he shouldn’t- he shouldn’t be spending what little time he possibly had left with his mate picturing him four days unbathed and getting fucked into a puddle of his own piss on the floor. When Akira finally opens the door and meets him outside (Goro is still unsure how he’s going to survive having to enter an un-desecrated Leblanc for any future thieves meetings) he takes one look at the offered bag before scrunching his nose up and taking a sniff. Goro’s heart stops.

“Aw,” he says, face and voice mild. “I was hoping you wouldn’t wash it when you finished.“


End file.
